Blood ran under the door like a slow tide.
Alexei stepped over it without looking down. Unbothered by the horror in front of him.
He moved quietly, his hands loose at his sides, and his head tilted a little as he listened.
The building held no power now. No light. No alarms. Just small sounds that told him where everyone was—drips, breath, the thump of a body hitting a hard edge.
He reached the next open doorway and stopped.
Zubair had Noah on the floor.
The man bled from everywhere.
Both thighs. Both hands. His mouth. His nose. The wall behind him looked like some type of modern painting of frantic brush strokes and blood spray.
Zubair crouched over him, calm as a winter lake, the knife hilt resting easy in his hand. He broke another rib with a short, sharp hit and waited to hear the sound it made.
